He Came Home
by BellaMonster
Summary: Sherlock comes home after a year of his disappearance. Short and a little silly.


**A/N:** So this was supposed to be what happened when Sherlock 'died' and then came back... I didn't know the time difference *I watched each episode once... But hardly paid attention to anything really . Feeling stupid for that* so I wrote this... And then realized that I needed to watch the show some more to understand some of the things that go on... Yeah... Had I done that _before _I wrote this... I'm pretty sure somethings would be different. But what I've written so far is pretty hilarious *some parts* so enjoy what I've got for you :) Hope you enjoy, and sorry for anything that might be incorrect, I'm just leaving it as I did it before. And anything in bold is notes from me... Because I won't be changing anything I've written.

* * *

"Now, please, there's just one more thing," he paused for a moment, his voice faltering, "one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." John took a breath, sniffling as he did so. "Don't. Be. Dead." The former soldier stared at his friend's gravestone for a moment. "Would you do that just for me?" He took another shaky breath, another sniffle. And then he lost it. "Just stop it. Stop this," he said, his voice full of anger. He was lost. He sniffled again and then straightened up, the look of a former soldier wavering between a lost friend and the strong doctor he had once been. He turned away from Sherlock's grave stiffly and marched away without looking back

* * *

It had been almost a year since Sherlock's death, Mycroft had left John alone (for the most part) since then, and John had managed to find a small job in London to do to take his mind off the death of his friend. He still lived in the same flat that he had moved into with Sherlock when he had worked with him. He couldn't bring himself to move out, no matter how badly he wanted to. And he wanted to make sure Mrs. Hudson was alright, as she had done so much for Sherlock and John. **Well... There were some points where Sherlock was a total asshat to Mrs. Hudson... Same with John, but I mean... She was dedicated to them, I'll give her that. Plus she's an amazing character in their story.**

Almost a whole year had gone by, and Watson's hope, wish, dream hadn't come true. Sherlock was dead. He obviously couldn't come back, even the amazing Sherlock Holmes had to die. His friend often haunted his dreams. John couldn't stop him and now he spend every second of every day wishing that, somehow, he could have stopped him. Sometimes John swore he saw Sherlock in crowds, but his face was always gone before John could say anything. **Guess what that means! You're delusional John! You should probably go get checked for that.**

It killed him, he hardly slept, knowing Sherlock would be there. He had no appetite, eating maybe a piece of toast or two, enough to keep him going in the morning. He wanted to be able to have a friend, a job, a _life_. But he couldn't. He was in a hole, a hole of sadness and disbelief. **Otherwise known as ****_DENIAL_****!**

There were good days though, where he could sleep well, eat a few meals, and not have Sherlock on his mind. The bad days... Mrs. Hudson wold try to help. The bad days happened a lot more often than the good days.

"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson called from another room. "There's a package here for you," she said. "I'm not sure who it's from. It doesn't say..." she trailed off as she handed John the package.

John nodded as he took the package from the landlady. He sat there for a moment, the package in his lap. He sighed before he cut the package open with the pocketknife that set on the table beside his chair. Inside there was only a little slip of paper. He stared at it in confusion. "Mrs. Hudson?" he inquired. "Do you know who dropped it off?"

"The normal mailman," she called over her shoulder.

He stared at it, a puzzled expression across his face. He pulled the slip out of the packaging. There were three words on the slip.

_I'm not dead. SH_

John stood up, feeling dizzy. "Mrs. - Mrs. Hudson," he stammered as he stumbled into the kitchen with a shaking hand he waved the slip of paper around. "Sher-Sherlock..."

"Oh, dear... Now that's just cruel," Mrs. Hudson murmured.

"It's his handwriting," John muttered staring at the note. "Do you think someone forged that?" he inquired looking at the landlady with a hardened glare. When she didn't say anything he whirled around, grabbed his cane and coat and then shoved his way out of the flat. **Bad day? I think not.**

He walked as fast as his leg would let him, he had no idea where he was going. He just had to get away from the flat. His phone went off, which was surprising since nobody normally called or texted him.

_Meet me at the cemetery. SH_

John wanted to throw the phone, but he resisted the idea. He turned his phone off, shoved it in his pocket and headed for the street, a look of no impression across his face. **I have no idea what that's supposed to mean.** "Taxi!" he called, but the taxi just passed him by. With a growl of frustration he started after another taxi.

When he got to the cemetery he felt sad, remembering that he had been here only a year ago for Sherlock. He didn't want to come, but generally he didn't show up when someone wanted him to show up, he got dragged there.

"Hello," the familiar voice of Sherlock said from behind him. **How did John not notice him? He must be delusional _and _going blind.**

John whirled around to face him. "How the- How the _hell_ do you think you can do that?" John stammered in surprise and anger. **Still not sure how he completely missed a tall guy in a black trench coat and scarf. Starting to believe he's already blind.** He stared at Sherlock for a long moment.

Sherlock was wearing the same thing he had worn on the day he had jumped off the building. **Can't say that any more casual.** He looked just fine, no scratched, bruises. Nothing. "I couldn't risk it," he said simply.**  
**

"Couldn't risk it?" John said harshly. **So much for being happy to see him.** "Risk what?" he grumbled. "Letting your friend know you're alive?" John crossed his arms in front of his chest. **Sassy John.****  
**

"You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would have been killed," Sherlock murmured. "I had to do _something_. I couldn't let three innocent... Well," he stopped himself. "_Two_ innocent people die," he said with a smile. "You shot a man and killed him."

"Yeah, well at least I didn't throw myself off a roof and pretend to be dead. For a _year_," John said staring at Sherlock, his eyes looked like small fires blazing. **Jesus John, let it go. He was doing it for you, is that not good enough?** He blinked a few times, like water putting out the fire, his eyes returned to their normal selves. "Bloody hell... You're alive," he said suddenly in realization. **Brilliant, Holmes!**

"Did you think someone had forged it? Think I would lie?" he asked.

"Mrs. Hudson did..." he muttered, his grey eyes lingering on the cemetery ground. "Where have you been?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, he couldn't tell John. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding sincere. **That's a first.** "For any pain I've put you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade to. It was the only thing I could do. Unless _you_ wanted to die instead, for _real_." Sherlock looked down at John. "I did it so you three wouldn't die. I-I." Sherlock sighed. "I didn't mean to hide so long. That wasn't the plan."

"Oh, then what was your plan?" John demanded. **So demanding, John. **"Because it seemed to me you were fine with it."

Sherlock's eyes snapped to John. "Did you not hear me on that phone? Do you think I faked that? I don't _fake_ things, John. If I did. I would have been dead for real now." **Word of advice, do not piss Sherlock off.** Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself. "I'm coming back to the flat." **Well. That was a quick decision.**

"Well you can't go around in that-"

"I have been for a year," Sherlock objected.

"People would notice you, Sherlock," John continued, "I don't want you dead, or in jail for all that nonsense before." **Aw, John, how cute. Except you already have yelled at him about fifty times, so now you just look like a kiss-up.****  
**

Sherlock seemed content on his idea. "I don't want to change." **But MOMMMMMMM.**

"Sherlock," John said warningly. **If you don't listen to me, I'm going to ground you, Sherlock. Behave. **"You've got to."

"I don't _even_ _have_ clothes," Sherlock muttered.

"That's why there's these lovely things called _stores_, Sherlock," John said with a sigh.

"Wouldn't they recognize me?" Sherlock asked, mocking John, his eyes dancing.

John scowled at Sherlock. "I can go in and get you some clothes," he muttered. "I would need the size of your clothes you wear though," he added as he walked past Sherlock toward the road. "Oh, and we'll have to walk too," he continued as he looked back at Sherlock with an innocent smile. **Except not so innocent. John isn't innocent. That's pure evil. And he shouldn't be teasing... After all he has to limp all the way back to the flat.**

Sherlock closed her eyes and sighed unhappily. "You need to get Lestrade to drive a taxi," he muttered under his breath as he walked after John, a very unpleased look smeared across his face. **That would be hilarious to see.**

John nodded, his movement filled with sarcasm. "Mhm, I'm sure Lestrade would _love_ that," he muttered. "Hurry up, or we won't be getting back into London before sunset."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Sherlock asked in amusement. **Don't ask questions, Sherlock. John has no time for your silliness.**

* * *

"Sherlock, be reasonable now. I am _not_ buying you clothes that you're only going to wear once if they're expensive." John and Sherlock had spend at least the last half hour arguing about the clothes John would buy Sherlock when they got near a shop. "I can even go into a thrift shop if I need to." **What, what, what, what, what, what. SING IT SHERLEY!**

Sherlock stared at John his eyes full of murderous fires. "Don't you dare," he grumbled. "I said what I wanted. Why can't you just get them? And if you buy me clothes from a thrift shop, I won't wear it. I have no idea what people have _done_ in those clothes, much less what diseases they may have had," Sherlock said in disgust. **Poor Sherlock. Being threatened by his best friend to go into a thrift shop. I think that would be funny to see.**

John smiled at that. "Anything that I have to pay over £50 isn't happening, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock nodded. "Please get me a hat. That's what that'll get you." **Talk about bitchy...**

John sighed. "Alright, I'll pay for the stuff, but you'll be paying me back," he said looking at his friend sternly.

For a moment Sherlock was silent. "John," he started, "you're limping," he noted trying to get off the topic of him paying John back. **Well, no dip, Sherlock.**

"Yes, well I've been walking around quite a bit, and ever since you jumped off that damn building it's been hurting. I got knocked down that day, you know," John said, his voice filled with displeasure. "I'll do something about it when we get back to the flat," he said in hope it would make Sherlock stop talking about it.

His limping made him feel weak, as if Sherlock would leave him behind if he could. In truth, his leg never felt better, he just stopped using his cane in hope that Sherlock would be a little more patient with him. Now, of course, John knew Sherlock wouldn't leave him. Sherlock had been out of touch with so many of the people he held dearly to him.

John probably wouldn't do much for his leg. There was little he _could_ do for it, take an ibuprofen in hope that it would kill the pain, and ice it maybe.

Sherlock nodded, he understood that John didn't want to talk about it. He probably also knew that John wouldn't do anything for it. That was a given, Sherlock generally knew what was up with John.

"Now, what size clothes do you need?" John asked Sherlock as he looked over his shoulder at his friend.

"Hmm. You should be a tailor," Sherlock said good-heartedly, looking at the darkening sky in thought. "Then you could just assume these things." **Sherlock is now suddenly all friendly... and hilarious... Huh.**

John shook his head, sighing, "Sherlock," he said, a serious edge to his voice.

"Fine."

* * *

"Here you go, pretty," John said, his eyes dancing with laughter. **Now Sherlock's pretty. Oh boy. **"Almost £500, you better be paying me back soon."

"Mhmmm," Sherlock murmured as he looked through the bag of clothes John had given him. He held up a pair of paints to his waist. "Hmm..." he mumbled. "You should become a tailor," he said with a look of impression. "You're pretty good," he said. He grabbed the shirt out of the bag, the look of impression fading. "Dear God," he muttered. "Definitely _not_ my style," he sighed looking at John. "It's fine," he grumbled after seeing the look his friend gave him. "But," he said, "you did get me a scarf and a hat," he said sounding pleased.

John stared at Sherlock with an amused expression. "I hope you know a place you can change besides standing on the street," he said holding back a smirk. "I'd rather not get arrested for that."

Sherlock stared at John for a moment. Then he reached back in the bag and pulled out the scarf and hat. "There's a loo in there, yeah?" he inquired as he started to tie the scarf around his face. John nodded slightly. "Get where I'm going with this?" John nodded again. "I'll be back in a minute," he said as he pulled his hat down so his eyes were barely visible.

He looked like a homeless person as he walked into the shop with the bag of clothes.

A few minutes later Sherlock came out of the shop. He didn't look like himself, the stupid scarf was still around his mouth. He was wearing a pair of dark, dark blue skinny jeans and a plaid shirt. He still looked horrible, but he didn't look like Sherlock.

"How do I look?" he asked sounding very bored.

"Homeless, but expensive..." John said teasingly. "Take the damn scarf from around your face. It makes you look horrible."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "Fine," he grumbled as he untied the scarf from around his neck. He put it on the way he generally wore his scarves. "Better?"

"Much," John said nodding as he leaned on his cane. "You should talk higher pitched," he suggested, trying not to smile.

"Oh, so like a girl?" Sherlock asked flashing John a murderous glare.

"Your voice is very noticeable, Sherlock," John said. "You can stop when we get back to the flat." Sherlock scowled and then walked ahead, not speaking at all. "Not to disappoint you, Sherlock, but you're going the wrong way," John called after Sherlock. Sherlock swiveled back around, an irritated expression across his face. "You've been away too long," John said as he stifled a laugh.

Sherlock muttered something as he passed John, words that John didn't catch. "Wait for me," he mumbled hurrying after Sherlock limping, cane in hand.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called from the bottom of the stairs. John had to force Sherlock to stay and not go upstairs and terrify Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes, dear?" she called from another room.

"Um... I've got a friend down here," John said, now starting forget what he had planned to say.

"A girl?" **Love how she just assumes these things.**

"Uh... No Mrs. Hudson," he stammered. "Come on, Sherlock," he murmured over his shoulder. "Don't talk," he said sternly.

When John and Sherlock reached the top of the stairwell they met Mrs. Hudson, who stared, eyes wide, with her hand covering her mouth. "Sherlock?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he said with a sigh leaning forward to hug the landlady. Mrs. Hudson stood there in shock.

"I know," John murmured, wishing he could comfort her.

"But-How?" Mrs. Hudson stammered.

John shrugged his shoulders. "At least we've got him back, that's all that matters," he said. "But nobody can know. Not yet. Not everyone has settled on the idea of him being dead." John's stern gaze fell on Sherlock.

"I promise you, I'm not going to go out and stand in public, yelling 'Sherlock's alive!'" Sherlock said in amusement.

"I would hope not," Mrs. Hudson murmured.

"What about Lestrade, should he know?" John asked. **Did you not just say that nobody should know about Sherlock being alive?**

"If you want to invite him for tea, be my guest," Sherlock said shrugging. "I won't be there."

"Why-"

"Sleep. I need some." And with that Sherlock wandered away.

"Oookay," John said rubbing his hands together. "Lestrade's coming for tea then..."

* * *

"John! Someone's at the door" Sherlock yelled from the other room.

"I thought you were sleeping," John muttered as he push himself out of his chair.

"Bored!" Sherlock said, his voice softer now.

John rolled his eyes as he hurried down the stairs. He opened it to see Lestrade standing there.

"Um. Well, hello, Greg," John said standing aside to let him in. "Come in," he said.

Lestrade nodded with a smile. "So, what have you called me for now?" he asked. **Both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade a good assumers. I mean... Look at them, she thought Sherlock was a girl and now Lestrade can INSTANTLY tell that something's up with John.**

"Oh, you'll see," John said, he tried not to sound too unhappy or excited. John led Lestrade upstairs to the sitting room.

Sherlock, the annoying man he had to be, was siting in his chair tapping his fingers impatiently. Lestrade stared at him blankly. "Hello," Sherlock said, an annoying cheerful smile spread across his lips.

"...Aren't you supposed to be _dead_?" Lestrade muttered, though he didn't sound surprised.

"I would have preferred an 'Oh my God! Sherlock! You're alive!' but I guess that'll do," Sherlock grumbled, his eyes dancing. "Anyways! Tea?"

"Tea," Lestrade murmured.

"Mrs. Hudson? Tea?" Sherlock called.

A sigh. "I'm your landlady, not your maid, Sherlock," she said.

"John. Make tea," Sherlock demanded. **Yes, at your command my master.**

John scowled at Sherlock and walked into the kitchen grumbling to himself. "Lazy..." he muttered putting the kettle on the stove.

"Make sure it's not too hot," Sherlock called, John could tell he was smiling.

"Yes, of course," John grumbled with a sigh.

A few minutes later John came back to the sitting room with two cups of tea, he had made sure Sherlock's was steaming hot.

"Here you go," he said handing them their tea, Sherlock scowled.

"I said not too hot."

"I didn't notice," John said innocently as he sat down in his chair, no attempt to get his tea. "So... Any questions?" he asked, his grey eyes lingering on Lestrade.

"Only as to why he didn't die. Which he won't explain," Lestrade sighed. "But we'll find out in good time," he added, his eyes fell on Sherlock.

"Someday, far, far away my dear, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Maybe when you're dead. Then I'll explain," he said absently. **Well, that's really helpful, Sherlock.**

"Helpful," Lestrade muttered shaking his head.

"I've found that I can be _very_ helpful," Sherlock said cheerfully with a stupid grin. **Oh yes, dreadfully helpful, Sherlock.**

"_Very_," John muttered. "I want to know where you where," John said after a moment.

"Somewhere," Sherlock said helpfully.

"Sherlock."

"Not in London."

"_Sherlock!_"

"Not in England?"

"_SHERLOCK HOLMES._"

"Alright, I was in Russia,"

"Bull, you couldn't get there," John said, his eyes watching Sherlock's movements.

"You wanna bet?" Sherlock asked leaning forward. He pulled out a fake passport. "I went to Russia."

John sighed. "Alright. So you went to Russia. How?"

"Carefully."

"For God's sake, Sherlock."

"I drove there, of course."

"Can you _even _drive?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said hurtfully.. He showed him a fake licence. "Of course."

John snorted in amusement and shook his head. "You could at least make the picture look like you."

Lestrade coughed. "Sherlock," he muttered, "you know..."

"I don't care about your police division. What are they going to do? Put me in jail?" **Sherlock. Going to jail isn't a good thing. I hope you realize that.**

* * *

**A/N: **Yeah, so that's all. I hope you enjoy. I may/may not update this. It just depends on what I feel like doing. Now off to do my SPN episode for the day! I'll have it up in about... 2 hours.


End file.
